


Say My Name (And Every Colour Illuminates)

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: A CONDOM IS A MUST FOR HEALTH AND SAFETY REASONS, M/M, Romantic Porn, Soulmates, Unsafe Sex, alternative universe, alternative universes, ambiguous ending, and i feel EXPOSED so i need to go undeground now, and it's got nothing to do with feeling close to someone PFT, but this is all fiction so, god kids use protection always, or - Freeform, this fic is THE VERY DEFITNION OF ME HAVING NO CHILL like it's GRAND PRIX OF THAT, unrealistic sex stamina, what if soulmates recognised each other after a one night stand, yep forgot to mention, yep i invented this tag this is what happens when an unapologetic cancer writes PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: There’s togetherness, but there’s separation about them.Always.Integral.Like it was meant to be.Almost.Like two parallel lines.Always close, never together.
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal, Rafael Nadal/Nick Kyrgios
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Say My Name (And Every Colour Illuminates)

**Author's Note:**

> It literally started with me thinking about Nick dancing to "Skin" and Rafa having that FILTHY RICH yacht of his whose surfaces and rooms should be explored and tested THOROUGHLY for endurance. And so it was supposed to be a complete plotless one night stand and then my inner cancer went: no, no, no, absolutely not, how about SOULMATES AU, MATE? Okaaaaay.

The music sips hypnotically in the air, the rhythm slow, sensual, building up to inevitable. Grinding. Rocking. Reaching the peak and coming down the high. And repeat.

Rafa feels out of place. In his light blue, buttoned up shirt, he let loose on his collar, under the assault of humidity and heat inside this place. And his tight jeans he doesn’t remember wearing the last time, because casual Friday never included a CEO of a stock company. Only his employers.

That feel of glass in his hand and sharp bitterness of whiskey is familiar, though. He’s been medicating himself like this for a while now. Whenever Mery wasn’t home. Or later on even with her around, which would always get him displeased, condescending looks of harsh judgment. Everything else did, too. They’ve become nothing but angry strangers holding each other hostage to their regrets and mistakes.

The taste spreads inside with initial heat coating the emptiness there. Perfect medication. For these few seconds always works its magic. And makes him feel full. Like there’s purpose. Like there’s spark inside, fuelling the reason, validating the results.

He’s become a corpo machine before he even noticed. His marriage is paying the price. And he’s been drenched in numbness and automatism for so long he thinks he doesn’t even particularly care that much.

The music swells and he thinks the heat from the booze turns to the physical one on his skin. Like he remembers what it means to sweat because you want so much. Even if they never went to clubs to steal quick, cheap fucks in the stalls with Mery. Come to think of it there never was anything resembling the feeling he has now: anticipating the inevitable, waiting for it, craving it.

Like everything else in his life, in the end, it was a business transaction with very few mutual benefits, as it turned out.

He’s got the divorce papers today. Started drinking to them on board of his boat where he moved out to few weeks ago. From that cold, empty house resembling his company, with glass doors, white, monotonous, claustrophobic walls and the entire feel of scheduled appointments and arranged scripts. Then came here to continue his medication.

It was a celebration, not grief behind his sips. Liberation. Maybe a nudge for him to break free. Break the glass house, smell the salty air by the water, feel the wind there and realise he’s become a clog in the machine and forgot how to live a life as a person.

The booze settles inside him with cosy familiarity, because everything else is empty routine. The music, not his choice, hot, rhythmical, building RnB tunes, wraps his body in shin of warmth and he reaches out into himself to face the same truth returning over and over again.

That he is supposed to be doing something else. That he is supposed to be someone else. That someone, somewhere got terribly mistaken, pushed the wrong button and sent him onto this conveyor belt where he’s a product of factory of fake and empty and dormant.

That he is waiting for release and it can’t be only in death.

The flash of red catches his eye, then. Like an answer to the prayers he’s been drowning in burgundy gold of the alcohol. The lights pulse in multicolour but the red comes from something else. Someone else.

From within.

A guy is dancing on a dance floor. He’s all red. He’s fire. He’s sex. And Rafa feels suddenly wired with red, like his life was grey and black and transparent and he can suddenly see. And he can suddenly know, what he’s been missing all the time. The spark. The breath of thrill. Being alive.

The guy is wearing red, too. Crimson v-neck bathed in the lights, making it rich, juicy like pomegranates, sour but sweet, moist and smooth. Fuck. Rafa feels perched, his throat dry. As if he hasn’t just drunk the whole glass of whiskey. As if he hasn’t tasted any liquid for days. For ages. 

As if tasting of life has began for him just now.

Black, skinny jeans, fitting to his hips, to his long, long legs, the material torn strategically, making the skin peek through, on his calves, thighs, his arms exposed, too.

The lights flash through the dimness of the club, reflecting on its shade, deepening the experience of devouring with eyes (registering every detail, as if Rafa learned again how to use his eyes). Chestnut, caramel, silky smoothness Rafa wants to bite on. It shines with sweat. It shines with temptation. It shines with the essence of that new-found revelation of what life is about.

It’s about burning in this red, devouring it, making Rafa be encompassed and reborn anew.

The moves are slow, sinuous. Inviting. Inevitable. Like music is. Like Rafa thought the rhythm filling up this space implies to lead to. ( _Almost there, So baby don't stop what you're doing Softer then them other, Boy I know you wanna touch Breathing down my neck, I can tell ya wanna (sh)_ ). The hands join in, touching neck, gliding down a chest, settling on the hips, moving to his back, staying there, as he sways.

Rafa drinks, like it’s for him, like it’s a feast for him to devour. ( _With my body screaming now I know you hearin' it, you got me moaning now_ ). He’s daring to look up, trail his eyes upwards the guy’s chest (the cut is low, revealing more patches of golden brown, shining like the coating, Rafa needs to know what it tastes like, Rafa needs to sink his teeth into right now) and then his eyes meet the guy’s eyes. Sparkling with mirth, creaking with laugh lines, but not mocking, encouraging, allowing, knowing, too. Letting Rafa know, that this is all for him. A feast to devour if he wants. If he dares.

The hands move again, mapping the possibilities Rafa could be exploring now. Spelling it all out for him with seductive summoning. ( _And now you want it like, want you to feel it now, I got a secret set I wanna show you, ooh I got a secret I'mma drop em to the floor, ooh.)_

He can’t tear his eyes away from his face now. Like he knows this face. Like he remembers it from somewhere. The body unraveling, unwrapping for him makes him physically ache. But the eyes, the face. There’s a tug inside the very core of his soul, calling him to this guy, like it already was or had been or will be.

He’s moving. Because of the dare (he’s an entrepreneur, he built his empire of shares, lies and empty coins on dares) but because of the pull of known, recognizable, too. _(_ _No teasin',  
You waited long enough.)._

His hands now meet the heat, the shapes of temptation personified. Like it was meant for him. Designed to fit. His palm touching a shoulder, a question for permission or confirmation. The guy responds with gravity of his own, bringing himself closer, moves bold and unapologetic, along with the rhythm. And he’s in Rafa’s space completely, hands digging into Rafa’s forearms, pulling him closer, wrapping them around his waist, letting Rafa feel him (warm, hard, sweaty, perfect).

“Hmmm, I’m kinda offended. It took you way too long to see me and get here,” there’s a purr in his ear. Low, hoarse. Rafa thinks he can taste it on his tongue. Silky, rich caramel. Melting to reveal chocolate core sprinkled with chili. He rocks his body closer in response, his hands now mirroring the moves from before. Everywhere. Mapping. Reading the signs left for him.

( _Don't hold nothing back, wanna take control, ain't nothing wrong with that_.)

The physical closeness, the intensity of it is familiar, too. But Rafa knows he never touched this body, never had it in his arms like that. He wouldn’t let it go, if he did.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Rafa can’t help but let the words out. Naïve. Exposing. They sound weak in his breaking voice, like he’s drunk on the sensations, not the scotch. Awakened anew. Nuzzling the guy’s neck, the light stubble on his face rough, exciting. He inhales from the crook of his neck spices and sweetness he imagined and feels himself going hard in an instant. Jesus. A recognition. It already happened. Somewhere. But different. He never had him like that. He wouldn’t let him go if he did.

The guy chuckles. The sound rich on Rafa’s skin, The touch of the teeth follows. A playful lick on his earlobe. Fuck, he’s 20 again. Hard and wanting. Moving to music, but moving to make their bodies align. Close. Closer. Not close enough. He doesn’t stop the moan making him taste the spices and the sweetness with his mouth parted, desperate to sink in. “You know, this line only works when someone’s not convinced. When someone’s not sure.”

“Of what,” Rafa pulls back to look into this face. These warm, smiling, provoking eyes. Embers in the volcano or ambers in the sunset on the beach. He knows. He recognizes. He wonders what happened that only now he finds them.

“Of wanting this,” the guy grinds closer, says it to the corner of Rafa’s lips, catching the skin there, an echo of a kiss. A preamble.

“This?” Rafa chases his breath and they end up nuzzling. Intimate. Loving. His knees are weak. He thinks his whole life is a lie. He never was alive. He never was this for anyone. Not even Mery. Especially not her.

“You taking me home?,” and breath and teeth grazing behind his earlobe are back when he continues. “To fuck me?”

God. Rafa can’t help himself. He mouthing the line of his jaw, open-mouthed promises, with a hint of a tongue there, like he’s writing his _yes, please, fuck._ The guy arches for more. The guy speaks with his body to that. “I don’t have a home,” Rafa mumbles to the corner of his lips, his fingers weaving into thick but soft hair, touching that red streak there. Wanting to burn. Burn more than he does now. To angle this face, to adore it more.

“Okay, so you’re really wining that Oscar at filthy rich vibes there,” the chuckle dissolves into moans as Rafa’s openly licks on his throat, yanking his head back for better access.

“Does it bother you?” mouth to mouth now, touching, tasting that appetizer, barely hanging on not to dive in for everything.

“No. Not really. As long as there’s a surface you can bend me over and have your ways with me,” the guy smirks, his eyes gleeful and feverish, as his hands grab on Rafa’s ass, bold, no inhibitions. Rafa’s fingers pull on the hair some more. There’s something stirring in him, recognizable among waves of lust and blinding hunger. Almost desperation to have this guy. To have him on all possible ways. Now. Right now. There’s a spark of possessiveness. A trail of dangerous thoughts, spiralling into a hollow pit inside. How many people heard this? How many people he said it to? How many people felt him like this? How many people had him afterwards?

“What’s your name?” Rafa’s grip is firm and he asks for a name, to steal semblance of intimacy. To seal semblance of familiarity he thinks they’re sharing. Even if it doesn’t mean anything in the end. Even if it’s just a gleam of the star on the night’s sky, brightest before it falls into non-existence.

“Nick,” the guy answers. Like he plays along. Like along with permission he wants to give Rafa the pretences of familiarity. There’s no more smirking glee on his face. There’s admission. And Nick’s hands travel to Rafa’s shoulders. Like they are holding onto each other for this anchor of strange recognition.

“I’m Rafa,” he sounds like he’s confessing. _Please, say my name. Say it like it means something. Anything. Than that soulless life of repetitive routine._

“Rafa,” Nick does. A breath on Rafa’s mouth, Rafa chases this time straight to the source, claiming these full lips, red, red, red, like fire, like sex, like life regained. He swallows the growl of approval and dives deeper for more of the sounds Nick’s making. Tongue warm and sleek, lips soft and matching, it makes his toes curl, like he’s 20. Like he can come just from kissing Nick. He pulls back not to. He wants to do so much. So much more. Everything.

Nick’s whimper hangs between them, with heat and the trail of saliva like that sacred seal of known, recognized. “Hmmm, my name tastes so good in your mouth,” Rafa sounds wrecked. The fire inside him is palpable.

“Hmm and you make all the lines sound so good,” Nick ‘s eyes are heavy-lidded and he’s licking on his lips, like savoring the taste. The tone is half amused. He sounds breathless, too. God. Rafa wants to hear more of this. This effect he’s having on Nick. Rafa wants everything. He’s weaving their fingers together and pulling him towards the exit. He whispers to Nick’s ear, encouragingly. “You said something about me taking you home, si?” as he guides them among the writhing bodies. The music seals the promises, too.

( _All I wanna see you in is just skin, all I wanna see you in is just skin.)_

“And you said something about not having a home, si,” Nick lets himself be maneuvered, stroking Rafa’s hand, mouthing to his neck, close behind, keeping their bodies in points of contact with Rafa willingly allowing so.

“Don’t worry, querido, plenty of surfaces where we’re going,” Rafa grazes Nick’s nose playfully to be rewarded with soft, giggly sound and his eyes laughing along with glinting openness.

The possessives is now protectiveness that edges on strange kind of despair. Over not having this before. Over searching for this the entire time. And not being allowed to keep it for long. Like falling star crashing into nothingness of the space void.

*

Nick smells of fire and abandon. He smells of something spicy and sweet. Rafa can’t get enough of it. The sensations are heightened like he’s been asleep. Unfamiliar with his body. With his desires. With who he is, what he wants.

Until now.

He’s pushing him against the concrete wall in a alley along the way to his private harbor. He couldn’t keep his hands away. He can’t not taste him, so he’s pulled him by the hand into the corner to have him trapped between his heated body and the rough surface now, thigh impatiently thrusting in between Nicks’ legs, lips mouthing his arching neck, tongue licking that skin, endless patches of honey and ginger, getting drunk on it, the scotch completely forgotten.

“Yo quiero todo contigo,” his voice is ragged, as he’s mouthing the pleas to sweated, delicious surface. Nick’s hands pull on his shirt, grip his shoulders. He’s eager and pliant and giving in and _his_ and the want to have everything, everything with him mingles with possessiveness of not having it before. Or having it now but only fleeting, temporary. He can’t help but ask, the syllables breaking into something wrecked settling in the corner of Nick’s mouth where Rafa has been feasting on delicacies. “Do you do this often?”

It hangs between them, heavy with implications.

There’s something else in the question. Something deeper. More desperate.

_How many people before me? How could I not know you before? How I can’t keep this forever?_

Nick looks into his eyes (Rafa gets lost in warm, brown, trusting and boyish. Exposing. Rafa could stay here forever). “Yes,” his fingers play with the strands on Rafa’s nape, apologetic or soothing. There is no regret on his face. But there’s honesty. And Rafa appreciates it. Offering him a chunk of that exposure. Of the truth. Like offering him a piece of his beating heart “Does it bother you?” Nick continues. Sounds small, no longer teasing. His face serious. Like he cares for an answer. Wants to have it clean with Rafa. Wants to have it different.

“No,” Rafa lies, because the possessiveness is there, growling like a creature as he noses the path along Nick’s neck, not wanting to waste any time not touching him. But he has no right to say it out loud.

The star he caught for a second or two will disperse into cosmic dust as it was meant to be.

“But I never let them take me home, Rafa,” Nick then says, his lips tracing the shape of Rafa’s parted mouth (a confession, not an acted out line, a declaration of vulnerability, not a provocation to continue). Rafa’s so desperate he believes him, clings to the glimpses of the truth in warm amber of Nick’s eyes and seals it with a kiss. Soft, asking for permission, parting Nick’s lips with inquiry for more ( _everything, everything with you_ ) and Nick lets him in (with words before, with mouth now, too).

And they are kissing, hands pulling close, not close enough, yanking on hair (Rafa still expects the read streak to burn just as much as the rest of Nick’s body does), digging into skin (Nick acts like he’s trying to leave marks, like he wants to catch that stardust moment between them too). There are sounds. Sighs and moans, wordless but poignant with meaning still. With Nick opening for more, his calf hiking up Rafa’s thigh so that they could meet halfway, hard and needy and so fucking hungry for each other.

Rafa never wanted anyone, anything more. Rafa never felt purpose filling up to the brink so much. He bites on Nick’s bottom lip (like he’s drinking from citrus fruit), pulls it in between his teeth and dives in for more, tongue insatiable, learning Nick’s taste my heart.

Somewhere in the middle of heady gasps, bodies rocking, soaring high, Rafa manages to speak. “Good. Fuck, that’s good to know, Nick. I want to have you here. I want so fucking much. To suck you off, to fuck into you, to make you come over and over again, to be in you so deep you will remember for days, for months, you will not forget, God,” he’s professing every image he paints with words with a buck of his hips, to have them stroke hardness for hardness, so close to the edge.

Nick’s bending backwards, almost wrapped around him now, obscenely offering himself. The skin on his chest glistening, Rafa dives to sip from it, to hear him purr from within, like from the core of the universe. “Fuck, please, do it, everything. I want everything, too.”

Rafa cherishes it. The sound of his voice. Ringing with vulnerability. With the truth.

_You’re mine now. And I’m not letting you go for now. Keeping stardust on my skin to remember._

He’s cradling his face, then. Forces Nick to look at him, eyes dazed, so fucking high, sending sparks straight to Rafa’s cock, wanting to see him well-fucked. Wanting to see him completely owned. But, for now, he whispers a promise. “But I don’t want it to be like before. With others. In some bathroom stall. In back alley, Nick,” he brushes their lips, with an aftertaste of that prologue that’s still buzzing under their skins, with a pre-taste of what’s coming next, slow, sensual, savouring. Like he would an appetizer. And he adds. “I want you to remember,” sappy, weak but honest.

Nick touches his forehead with his own, nodding, with understanding. Silently giving in. Accepting. His voice sounds hoarse (like he’s been gulping on air, because he was) but there’s undercurrent of tease from the club echoing there. “Besides I need to see the surfaces at that that mysterious place that is a home you apparently don’t have?”

Rafa’s smile lines up with Nick’s. It’s in sensation of lips touching more than seeing the expression. “You have no idea, niño.”

And off they go to steal the stardust for themselves from each other.

*

“Okay, should I call you sugar daddy?” Nick gapes and chuckles at the Beethoven docked by the picturesque harbor Rafa owns close to the residence he used to live in, now Mery probably blesses the fate for being free. They still need to handle shares but she was never particularly into the corpo work. She’s probably going to continue with teaching dance classes. He stole her from this belonging and she deserves to have it back. Away from the prison of the routine and soulless he had to offer.

The lamp posts on the cobbled shore create a golden bubble around it. The place has always been a shelter. He often ran away here to be with himself. With sad realizations he would always reject in the end. That he is on autopilot and he was supposed to be doing something else with his life. He rarely went swimming, because the feeling of endless and freedom could overwhelm him too much, choke him with regret over never having enough courage to follow through this unknown path and find himself.

He never took anyone on board either. Until now.

“If it turns you on?” Rafa bites on Nick’s earlobe, nudging him forward with his body wrapped around Nick from behind. Their hands are magnets pulling onto each other. Nick’s nails are grazing the surface of Rafa’s forearms, like cherishing the strength, the muscles structures adoringly.

People would often tell Rafa he has hands of an athlete not a corpo shark. And he would always answer: _what’s the difference_ , ignoring the pang of ache at the pit of his stomach, pushed aside into seeming oblivion.

“Are you very familiar with the term?” he continues, leaving a long, sensual lick along Nick’s jawline and behind his earlobe, making him rock backwards where he fits so well to Rafa’s hardness. Rafa grunts under the assault of lust, but there’s still already familiar possessiveness there sizzling under his skin.

 _How many people before me?_ Or _Where have you been all my life?_

“No. I spoil myself. I don’t need a helping hand with that,” Nick grunts back, still moving in Rafa’s arms like he can mould him into his own creation. Their physicality together is intoxicating. Rafa feels like he knows exactly where to push, how to stroke, when to slide glide or bite to have him respond. Like they already did this. Like somehow they replay what already happened between them. Push and pull. Backwards and forwards.

_Rafa’s forehand to Nick’s backhand._

The thought flares inside Rafa like a slash of something sharp. A knife, making him bleed. All these regrets he pushed aside for never. Almost makes him stop mid-track, let Nick go. Run.

But nothing could tear him away from the smell, feel and belonging of this body in his arms so he seeks more of it, more of this pliancy, more of this familiar and responsive.

“Maybe you need a hand with something else, Nick?” he teases, voice low, breathed out, as he moves them up the steps leading on board of his boat. And Rafa starts stroking him over the material of his black jeans. Slow. Torturous. Feeling the shape, the length, longing to have skin under skin as he’s breathing hard against Nick’s cheek with Nick willing and elastic under his hands. Moving in sync to his strokes, making Rafa settle so well against his ass.

“Fuck, Raf,” the sound is more a sensation.

Again. That familiarity.

No one called him that. And yet Rafa recognizes it. In this exact tone. In this exact voice.

“What do you want, Nick? Anything you want,” Rafa moans, maneuvering them awkwardly on deck, in the direction of sofas set on the outside for lounging in the sun.

It sounds like declaration. Something final. Something absolute.

And when Nick turns around in Rafa’s arms to growl to his mouth with feverish anticipation. “I want your hand, your mouth, your cock, everything, Raf, everything,” and Rafa drinks his own name from Nick’s lips with greedy, sharp teeth, a feral kiss of two starved souls, it echoes with the same poignancy.

Like oaths they exchanged once upon time. In another lifetime maybe.

*

So it goes slow at first. Like Rafa feels it did with them. Somewhere else. Not on a boat. Not in bed. Somewhere else, smelling of grass, or concrete, with swishes of the wind and hollow melody of strings. Battle cries and routine announcements that end up being deliverance or damnation often.

Rafa leads them to the bow of the ship, hands busy, pulling on the hem of the shirts, grabbing closer, mouths meeting in haste, hunger and years lost somehow? He’s turning Nick towards the view of the bay (Mallorca shines with evening lights, shimmering gently on the line of the horizon, the air is fresh, smells of salt, potent, gentle splashes of the water against the ship mingle with chirping of the crickets, Rafa’s always sought this anchor, a reminder of what life is outside the prison of pretences, of muscle memory. Now, his arms are full of strong but pliant body, bending for him so eagerly, seeking his closeness, and the feel of shelter and anchor is fuller. Is richer. Like this is what he’s been looking for his entire life here.

“My hand first,” he murmurs to Nick’s ear, reaching upfront for the zipper of his jeans to pull him out, to finally touch him. Feel that skin. That warmth. On himself.

Nick’s hard, wet and pushing into Rafa’s palm with the most obscene moan leaving his mouth Rafa wants to drink but the angle is awkward so he focuses on palming him, slow, teasing but exposed and his.

“Show me, show me how you want it,” he’s breathing heavily into Nick’s skin, mouthing the crook of his neck, leaving marks there. A salted caramel delicacy to devour. Nick does, joining their hands, pumping himself through Rafa’s touch as if he would, maybe in front of a mirror, maybe for Rafa to watch in that life they could have in that impossible what if.

Rafa can feel more of Nick, with his trembling from desperation palm, he’s slipping it beneath Nick’s shirt, to lift it up, to caress taunt stomach, move higher to perked nipples, gather the sweat like an ink of their first chapter and spread it more onto this golden parchment of his smooth skin like writing their whole story. Nick’s liquid in his hands, moves to every gesture with trembles and bows, leaning his head back, seeking Rafa’s lips, seeking every point of contact available.

“Hmm,” he’s sighing, hands and lips busy with Rafa’s. “This is not exactly how the scene in Titanic went or did I watch the wrong version?” Rafa swallows the warm chuckle with an open-mouthed peck.

“You don’t feel like the king of the world, you mean?” Rafa brings him off with slow dedication, that still bears resemblance to something else they did or could do.

In that what if? In that life they never had?

Swishing exchange of the wind between them, building slowly into a tornado of passion and chase.

Nick stops the ecstasy dance they balance on the edge of, turning in Rafa’s arms to face him, hands travelling to Rafa’s zipper now, unapologetic, bold, not asking for permission. Like he wouldn’t in that other life, with wind swishing between them with force and strategy of an equal responding bravely to the challenge. “Take me to the stars and I will,” Nick smirks and Rafa tastes the shape of it in a lazy, sloppy, parted-mouth kiss Nick shares with him, the sensuality of it heightened by the feeling of his palms on Rafa’s cock now.

Rafa moans, weak, overwhelmed, addicted to the thrill, dare and ardor this boy is brimming with already. Melting the walls, pushing his heart to ferocious beat, filling his lungs with fire and his body with spirit of insatiable hunger for more. Nick makes them meet in a tight grip of his hands, few strokes and brushes joined by his mouth seeking Rafa’s. It’s a wet, warm, hard sensation of being so close, of diving into infinite.

He remembers. He thinks he knows but forgot throughout all his life. How could he. How could he forgot this force of nature bringing him to life in his arms like that?

Nick’s an equal. Nick’s a partner. Meeting Rafa stroke for stroke, beat by beat, push for push. But Nick is daring and Nick now moves them backwards, not breaking the contact, lips grazing lips in a wet sloppiness and Rafa’s been in control his whole life, managing the companies, giving orders, pushing people around, making them into the same puppets he’s become. But now he gives in. In trust and in faith. Like they already shared this synchronicity. Like Nick knows exactly Rafa’s space and how to claim it, how to pin him down, but not trap him but thrill him, excite him this way.

His legs hit one of the sofas on deck and he’s pushed on the surface (pushed to the corner, pushed behind the baseline with swish of a wind becoming gale, knocking the breath off his lungs) and Nick’s straddling him now (Nick’s the one behind the dominating force, liberating his strength, passion and devotion to follow the challenge, to raise to the extreme). And he’s moving, the pace increasing, the swish of the wind growing in relentlessness, as Rafa’s hand travels to the hem of Nick’s shirt to rid him of it, to have him more, bare, exposed, _his_.

Nick gives groaning permission, lifting his hands so the layer can come off. It does. It reveals the goldmine, shining with amber shin of sweat, reflecting harbor lights or reflecting stardust itself. Endless patches of coppery land of riches for Rafa to feast on. As he does. Sinking his teeth into it, tasting salted caramel, not having enough of it. Licking trails, like writing ownership, sucking on marks for Nick to remember.

Nick’s arching for more, getting them off with his hand, the other yanks on Rafa’s hair, strong thighs wrapped around Rafa like vines to never let go. Rafa doesn’t want him. Never. _Please._ He’s saying something, mumbles prayers, or chants for nick not to. _Don’t let go._ To wet skin on Nick’s chest, and his neck, teeth marks angry red, seals of what happened, what will happen, what should have happened years ago. _God, where have you been?_

The words reach him through a distance, like he’s soaring, the swish of the wind in his ears, a familiar hum of adrenaline, to chase him, to catch him, to win over him. He thinks he can hear himself saying all of this out loud. Pleading. Demanding. Screaming at fate. “Dios, donde has estado? Donde has estado?”

Nick doesn’t understand, but Nick still kisses him, gently, longingly, like he does. Like he knows what he’s asking. Like he tries to offer him peace and reassurance. “I promised you my hand,” Rafa whimpers to the kiss, swatting Nick’s hand away and takes a grip of them both, guiding them to that infinite dive now, with Nick arching impossibly backwards, neck a long stretch of smooth gold to mark, to claim, to kiss. Rafa does.

“Rafa, Rafa, Rafa,” and then licks the sound of his own name from Nick’s vibrating throat as they reach the heights together and it doesn’t matter who won over whom. It’s being together in this infinite chase of sweated skin, panted breaths and seeking each other’s bodies. Nick’s riding out that high with Rafa’s hands now sheltering him like covers on his back, his shoulders, any pretext to learn the golden smoothness by heart more. And Rafa’s eyes committing every detail of his almost pained expression by heart, lips bitten, eyes pleading the sky for what? To keep him here for longer? To keep him in Rafa’s arms?

“Did you go to the stars?” Rafa smiles lazily to pliant mouth already searching for him to caress with familiarity of doing this forever.

“Oh, the night’s still young,” this mouth is everywhere now as Nick’s wrapped around Rafa tightly, like the seal of the marks left heralded. To never let go. Oh, to catch this restless wind and to hold it in between his hands. Rafa’s brimming with pride as Nick’s showering his face with kisses. It’s disarming, too. Gentleness of the aftermath. Like he seeks anchor in touch, more touch. Restless creature so pliant in his hands. Like he’s still giving Rafa that answer.

_Where have you been?_

_I’m here now._

“And I’m not done with you,” Rafa promises, catching Nick’s lips now tracing Rafa’s nose in a playful kiss. And they meet in the middle, languorous, savouring, oblivious to that hot, wet mess between them. Nick nuzzles his way to the crook of Rafa’s neck and they sink into a hug. Silent. Serene. Prolonged. That seal of a promise. To never let go. Until Nick asks, the words sound like something else but the true meaning is there.

“So, you bring many people on your love boat, Rafa?” mumbled, almost shyly, to Rafa’s skin, where it tickles, where it nudges and pokes with urgency or ache, or something in between. The echo of Rafa’s previous question there. The echo of that regret at the fate now unlocked, pulsing in their blood. _Where have you been before?_

Rafa touches the back of his head (like cradling it) and forces him to look back when he says (when he confesses the truth). “None, Nick,” _because it feels like there was no one before you._ Not really. Left unsaid. But heard loud and clear.

Nick lets the words sink in. Lets the truth be soaked into the core of him. Then he deflects the emotion (overwhelmed by the magnitude of it, by the ridiculousness of it), tone teasing, but eyes bare, shining with shock, shining with disbelief that exposes him for vulnerable. “Charmer.”

“It’s the truth, querido,” his fingers move from Nick’s nape, to his cheekbones, tracing the shapes, worshipping the features, marvelling at the beauty of it. The way Nick leans to the touch, eyelids fluttering, like he’s made of soft things responding to gentleness like sunflower does to the sun, leaves Rafa completely disarmed.

“Shut up,” Nick purrs, completely unconvincing, letting Rafa caress his face more, eyelids quivering in pleasure, in trust, in serenity.

“Make me,” Rafa smiles like he’s high on the closeness. Because he is and doesn’t have to wait much longer for Nick to descend with his mouth, soft, but needy as they kiss like indeed the night’s still young.

*

The candlelight brings out the golden of Nick’s skin so well Rafa just stands there and stares. The water casts sparkling, playful flares all over the place, reflecting off this smooth, golden surface like the tapestry of the night sky scattered with twinkling stars of the seductive, summer night.

“You’re staring,” Nick chuckles, settled inside the tub comfortably, like he belongs there, like it’s his place, like it’s his home. Fuck. He does look like he is. At home. Belonging.

There’s layer of steam making him seem like a mirage, or Aphrodite vision coming to life out of foam. Naked and liberated in his own skin, he’s sprawled in the corner (layers of his clothes marking their way over here, Rafa still kept his on, preoccupied with learning that map of golden constellation guiding him to where he was missing his whole life). 

“Does it bother you?” Rafa echoes Nick’s question from before, thinking about something else, thinking about all the time they had separately, all the people that shaped them separately, all the distance and empty space shaping that absence in their lives.

“Not really. It comes with the job all the time for me,” Nick smiles mysteriously, trailing the surface of hot water with his hand, leaving circles spreading around him like a blessing aura, expanding further away, towards Rafa, who’s sitting on the edge of the tub, feet in, admiring the view/ The aura reaches him, touches him, and leaves the mark. Maybe forever.

_I will never be free of this. I don’t want to be free of this. I will never forget this. You. As you are like now. Mine._

There’s a pang inside Rafa. The entire chunk of Nick’s life he knows nothing of. It offends him. It frustrates him. And yet, there’s layer of familiarity. The swish of the wind, the hit of the strings, the thrill of the chase. As if it’s not entirely the case.

_I know you. I remember you._

“People staring or you looking so gorgeous the stars pale in comparison?” Rafa raises an eyebrow, catching the circles spreading on the water in his hand, like they share a touch, even if sitting on the opposite ends of the tub.

“Hmm, a poet at night and a corpo shark during the day? Interesting combination,” Nick smiles gleefully and Rafa is not entirely surprised Nick has him pinned like that. Beneath the layers of seductive flirt, there’s unguarded rawness, sharp alertness building his defences. Like he’s sending out flares to distract those around from the truth. Because it was once abused. Because it was once shamed. Because it was stolen from him and embarrassed?

“Seducer at night and seducer during the day, now, in which business this might put you, Nick?” Rafa muses, playing with the water, sending the circles back to Nick. A nudge to lure him onto the outside.

Nick chuckles. “You’re hoping, an artist, but you wanna say, a whore, yeah?” and then he stretches in the water lazily, grasping the circles Rafa spread into his palm, to massage the droplets from his nape, to his chest, slow, purposeful, not tearing his heated gaze away from Rafa. His hand disappears beneath the surface then and his body responds with a beautiful bow and a sigh he bites on on his lips.

Perfectly re-enacted scene that still leaves Rafa’s throat dry and his skin stretched in tension to touch, to have, again. The entire time he’s not close to Nick, he wants to grab his phone, anything with a camera in, and capture him, every detail, grasp this wild but fragile beauty, heated charisma that burns so bright around the warmest core, glowing at night like a fallen star that no longer even is. To keep. To dare to have.

Nick’s touching himself, moving to the lazy rhythm of his palm, pleasuring himself under water, his other hand petting his chest sensually, as he continues to worry his bottom lip and cast Rafa flared up looks of invitation.

Rafa pretends unaffected. Angry. Jealous. Yearning inside. Knowing others have this. Had this. Were allowed to see this, taste this, own this. The sting of possessiveness makes his hands grip the edges of the tub till his knuckles go white, when he says, as matter-of-factly as he can muster. “Some would say it’s one and the same, Nick.”

Rich, low chortle replies him, enveloped in a moan, as Nick’s teasing his nipples now, bending backward with a whole buffet of glistening delicacies laid for the taking. “True. But something tells me, Rafa, we are both liars. We both lie to ourselves our entire life, hmm?” it’s a purr, but it’s a whimper. His eyelids flutter and his expression’s touched by hurt. Like he’s confessing. Seeking deliverance.

“Yes. Yes. I am. I’m lying to myself all the time. But not here. Never here, Nick,” this is his only shelter of the semblance of freedom and the truth he harbours in his life. And he’s sharing it with Nick now, poignant and confessional.

Rafa’s resolve crumbles. He wants to tear the pretences off Nick, he wants to smear the nonchalance away, crack the mask of attitude. He wants to pull the truth about him out, he wants to kiss it, hold it, love it. Have it for these few moments.

_I had you. With everything you are. Everything you were hiding with. You ran into me and I had you for these few moments._

He gets into the water, jeans, T-shirt, and all and in a few strides he’s by Nick, taking hold of his hand under water, stroking himself, then reaching for the other one, caressing his own chest and he puts them behind Nick in a firm grip, leaning closer, trapping him between himself and the wall of the bath. Nick moves to gravity. Rocks himself closer to meet Rafa, to let their bodies sing together. He asks, mouth red of pomegranates but eyes morning stars blinding with the dawn. The truth lurking there. Wanting to give in to Rafa. Nick’s voice sounds weak and revealing when he asks, mouth catching on Rafa’s. “So, what is the truth here, Raf?”

“That maybe, we have been waiting our entire life to be free together right now?” the words disappear on Nick’s tongue as he greedily drinks them up, his body eager and rubbing itself against Rafa’s soaked clothes. Like an answer. Like he’s screaming his, _yes, yes, yes_! Hands willingly in his grasp, like Nick’s trusting Rafa with commanding his body. Like Nick’s trusting him with that freedom. It’s a long, savouring kiss. Hungry and promising, Tongues lazy, lips soft and wet, it’s a languish comfort of knowing each other under skin and appeasing to each other’s unspoken needs. And then Rafa’s moving to his neck, to graze it with teeth, the swirl of his tongue on the hollow of Nick’s neck makes him arch for more, when he states. The law of nature. The seal of a promise of theirs.

“I promised you mouth, Nick.” and he’s tracing Nick’s bottom lip with his thumb, like signing the oath, parting those lips, letting Nick’s tongue touch the finger and then, it’s oblivion. It’s hunger unleashed.

He lifts Nick up, to sit him on the step higher, to expose the delicacies for the taking, patches of naked wet skin, glistening with gold and candlelight. Nick gasps, as the air hits him with coolness, supporting himself with arms against the edge of the tub and allowing Rafa to spread him more, completely to feast.

Rafa does. Swallows him instantly without preamble, delighted at the way Nick’s body is wired to his, moving forward, for more, in an obscene bow. Nick scrambles for balance with hands behind him, above him, grabbing the wooden surface of the floor when Rafa’s mouth sucks on him with fervor, a hint of teeth and tongue insatiable and lapping on honey-like sensation filling him up. He rubs circles on Nick’s stomach, feeling the muscles contract there, and then reaches higher to fondle his nipples to make him bow impossible deeper. The sounds he’s making loud, unapologetic. Raw. Exactly the way Rafa wants to hear him. Wants to have him.

He’s sucking on the length of him, mouthing, licking, taking him more, completely, as if he wants to wretched the truth out of him. The truth of him and the truth of him as he is now: Rafa’s. As if he wants to tattoo this on his skin with teeth marks and laps and hands grasping that no one else ever had him and can have him like that.

Absolutely liberated. Rafa, the witness, Rafa, the owner of it.

Nick’s coming into his mouth with wrecked cries, beating his hands against the wooden surface in ecstasy, with Rafa still not letting him go, his mouth greedy, his palms wrapped around Nick’s backside, to shield, to ground, to take, read the spasms beneath the skin of his spine like reading his body’s belonging.

“Oh god, fuckfuckfuck, Raf, jesus, please,” his fingers now pull on Rafa’s hair, to push him away or to anchor himself, but Rafa’s relentless, he’s still devouring the aftermath. Nick’s body helplessly quivering in his arms even if he’s spent, even if he seems to have given his all, like Rafa wanted, like Rafa aimed for.

_The truth about you is mine. But not yet. Not complete yet._

So, he’s pulling his mouth away, a trail of semen and saliva follow, like a sacred bond that formed between them that night and he continues his christening, fondling Nick’s softening length back to hardness, opening him legs up with fingers digging into skin beneath his knees. And his mouth dive deep, to the core of Nick, where he will find him the most guarded, now, open, pulsing, clenching with sobs on Nick’s lips, begging for release, begging for completion, begging for serenity. Rafa delivers him with his tongue delving deep, arms lifting him up even more as he’s already soaring, wrapped around Rafa’s shoulders, clutching onto his nape, nails scratching surface, writing the inevitable: _the truth about me is yours._

And so, it is. With orgasm wringing the soul out of him for the second time, juices on his stomach telling Rafa, that he was right, there was still the essence of Nick there to have, to take and so Rafa did, lapping on it now with open-mouthed kisses (devouring the proof, the confirmation: _mine_ ), travelling soothingly upwards to the centre of his chest where Nick’s heart almost beats on the outside with rapture he’s lost in, stripped bare and absolute.

There are traces of tears on Nick’s cheeks, falling from beneath his closed eyelids, as he gulps on air with mouth open, like he came back to life from the divine foam, an Aphrodite. He’s breathing out holy names, he’s breathing in Rafa’s and Rafa kisses his tears like it’s his communion and says. “Now, this is the truth, Nick. The truth about you and it’s mine.”

*

Rafa lays Nick almost gently among the white sheets of his bed. He’s carried him in his arms all the way from the tub. Dripping on the deck in his soaked clothes. Nick’s pliant and trusting, keeping his head in the crook of Rafa’s neck, nosing his caresses along his peppered with light stubble jaw line.

“It’s turned out to be a true marathon of surfaces. You’re a man of your word, Raf,” his voice sounds sleepy, low, hoarse. Like cries of Rafa’s name are still stuck in his throat.

“Not yet, baby,” Rafa kisses the top of his head, maneuvering them in between the cabins for guests (never used by anyone, because this has always been his fortress of solitude, where he could take off the layer of pretences and breathe in the reality of wasted chances and mourn them). Until they reach Rafa’s personal one and Nick’s settled in softness of the covers.

His chestnut skin, still wet, shining with sweat, or droplets of water, or both, composes so stunningly with the snowy white Rafa’s breath hitches. The image of Nick in this place is symbolic. Disrobing Rafa of any more chances to escape, to forget, to ever move on from this.

This is a place full of scraps of his life he pushed aside, pretended do not exist, never meant anything. Wasted chances buried so deep beneath the ashes of hope and desires he told himself they are weightless, shapeless mirages of someone else. His fishing equipment he used last time when he was a teenager (he’s not sure, it feels like memories of someone else, someone who never got a chance to live this life). There are pictures of his friends he used to play ball with on a football pitch (they are all in Europe now, achieving their dreams, brave enough to) stuffed somewhere in the drawers. There’s a trophy he won in juniors, when he took tennis racket into his hand for the first time and thought he will never stop, he will never want to stop, and felt like he’s found, like he’s whole, like he knows what to do with his life. Until, just after this first tournament, he busted his knee. The doctors never were subtle about their verdicts (‘your body is not compatible with tennis, so if you want to walk, you can’t continue’). That racket landed at the bottom of the sea and the feeling of purpose and wholeness crumbled into cold and bitter cynicism that pushed him onto the path of business career. Heartless, wrapped in defences, stolen by routines, numbers, hierarchy and oblivion of all the hopefulness that ever was in his heart for anything.

And now, there’s Nick there. In the very center of this place. He seems to be glowing here. With the truth. There is no more escaping for Rafa. There’s getting himself lost in abandon of each other or freedom or everything in between. Nick’s robbed of all lies too. He’s no longer performing his act, rich in sensuality, spoiled nonchalance. His eyes are gleaming with realization of being let in into a place, where Rafa’s heart used to beat. Where Rafa’s heart might start beating again.

Rafa stares, commits this image to memory. To remember, just like he does remember, the feeling of the racket, the jokes of his friends, the smell of water at dawn when he was waiting for a hook bite. Whenever he’s here, lets silence around him surround him with recognition, lets the recognition inside and endures the pain of remembering.

He will remember Nick like that too, In his bed, naked, beautiful, _his_. For these few moments, _his_ , with everything he is.

“What are you looking at?” Nick asks, letting Rafa take the whole sight of him, breathing this in, soaking it up.

“You,” _the real you_ is left unsaid. 

“And?” Nick’s unafraid. In this truth of theirs. Nick’s greedy for it now.

“I know you. I was meant to know you. God, I know you, Nick,” Rafa pleads, someone, anyone who would listen to give them another chance.

“That’s just sex talk, babe,” Nick winks at him, playing with the hem of the pillow, but his eyes shine with longing, with the same amount of desperation to enchant the reality, to turn back time, to shape the fate so that they could meet earlier. So that they could be free together.

For longer than just these few moments.

“Come here, you have a promise to fulfill, you stud,” Nick reaches out with his hand and Rafa takes it instantly, weaves their fingers together and lets himself be pulled towards him, like Nick’s the centre of his gravity. He is, here and now. And he would be in that other reality. Or whenever. Wherever.

Breaking the connection, even for a moment to take off his wet clothes, scatter them on the floor, almost hurts. Like every second is now a chase with separation and they can shelter themselves from it only in touch. But the skin’s back on skin, when he settles himself between Nick’s legs, their hands intertwined and Nick’s reaching with the other one for Rafa’s length, getting busy with strokes, sighing dreamily and playfully. “Hello, there.”

“Wait, Nick,” Rafa stops his eager caress, prevents him from taking them both into hand. He leans forward, making them still meet in electrifying warmth and hard and ready, chest brushing against chest, skins merging in longing. “Let me look at you,” he adds, with palms already reading Nick’s every wrinkle, freckle and laugh line, as he’s tracing his features with almost trembling wonder. “Please,” weak whisper, a breath of a kiss on his nose, his forehead and then Rafa’s adoring him with just his eyes, stroking his thick hair with tenderness of almost a guardian (feeling the red streak like it’s hotter to the touch).

The playfulness in Nick’s eyes makes room for something fragile, something trembling like butterfly wings. The mahogany brown becomes amber gold. He’s a fluttering creature, helpless, vulnerable, scared. “Hey, you’re safe with me. You’re safe,” Rafa says like he would to this creature, shivering to escape, even if the palms touching him offer nothing but shelter.

“Fuck, Raf,” Nick’s hand is on Rafa’s cheek, searching for that shelter, quivering and unsure and then it travels to his eyes, to cover his eyelids, because reassurance he finds there is too overwhelming to bear. “When I pose for photoshoots, they always dig deep, they try to pull me out in the open, the flashes like peering eyes, but I learned how to trick them. I perfected hiding with myself so well that I’ve been making a living out of it since I can remember. With you….,”his voice sounds so soft, so quiet. Sharing too much. It echoes too loudly here. In this truth of theirs. “With you, I don’t want to hide,” he confesses close to Rafa’s lips. A vow.

Rafa gently takes his hand off his eyes, putting it to his mouth to kiss. A response to a vow. “Don’t hide. Don’t ever hide from me, Nick,” like they have years ahead of them. Like they have an entire life. Rafa glides his mouth from Nick’s palm to his wrist and he sees the ink then.

A name.

A belonging. Before Rafa. Because Rafa was not in his life. He will not be in his life. Rafa never had him. And can’t keep him either. It hurts. It makes him shudder in injustice and frustration. Nick notices. In response he strokes Rafa’s ring finger, where a wedding band left a mark. He’s worn it for so long, the skin soaked it up and even after taking it off, it still told a story, like Nick’s ink does.

They had their lives before. They will continue with their lives separately. They are only allowed to steal these few moments and that is all.

So, Nick pulls him closer, wraps his legs around Rafa’s hips and guides their laced hands to where they are both straining for release, for completion, panting urgently. “Doesn’t matter, Raf. Doesn’t matter. This is what does. You made a promise. Fuck me, now. So that I can remember.”

They move together, brushing against wetness, breathing into each other’s mouths, still yearning for this, their bubble of stolen time, of what ifs made real. “I need to get things, yo necessito, por favor,” Rafa mumbles like in fever, drunk on sensations, drunk on wanting so much, catching on Nick’s bottom lip, licking the corners of his mouth, wherever he can get and have a taste. Nick’s hands dig into the skin of his backside, nudging him forward, making him feel every shiver, every bow of this perfect body beneath wired in need to have him inside.

“Fuck, I’m clean. I promise you, I’m clean and God, Raf, I want you raw, I want you like this. To feel this, to feel this long after, please, fuck, please,” the whines leaving Nick’s throat, the way his eyes shine with desperation (like unshed tears letting more of him out for the taking) leave Rafa completely defenceless, all remnants of reason, of wisdom, of logic knocked off. He’s reduced to want. Pure want. Gravity. Inevitability between them.

The words fail him. There’s Nick’s name thick and smooth and delicious on his tongue he could taste for the rest of his life when he slips his fingers into him, to feel him wet, and loose and quivering. There’s litany of the holy names that follows, upon discovering this, how ready he is, how much he wants this, too. Nick’s body already sucking him in, begging for more, still.

The gravity guides him home as he slides into Nick and Nick welcomes him there like it’s been written, like they’ve been made to be this, like the missing pieces finally fit together.

Jesus. It feels like all his life was a lie. He never really had anything of substance, of meaning, despite the status, despite the money, despite the career. There was nothing there to fill him up so much with purpose, with realization. Until he got to hold this boy in his arms, buried deep inside him and watch him arch for more, with eyes not looking away, eyes bottomless galaxies of aching for connection soul, mouth soundlessly shaped around awe, pain and Rafa’s name. And when Nick starts rocking them, nudges Rafa to move inside him, to slid even deeper, to touch the very core of Nick, Rafa feels his chest hurt with overbearing sensation of completion (frail, brief, just for right now, like a mayfly that will already be dead tomorrow).

He’s sinking deeper and Nick responds, Nick’s spreading himself more to take him in, to add to the wholeness of theirs. That trembling creature hiding behind mahogany walls is now running brave and open to the sun to bask in it, to soak it up, trusting, giving in. Rafa’s hands start to wander all over this smooth skin, to reassure that yes, he can trust, he can give in. but to learn the beauty of it by heart too, to tell him how beneath the layers of creation he constructed, the rawness of his overwhelms. Shines like supernova.

He does, as he thrusts into Nick, with each word spoken. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful, Nick. You should never hide. God. That heart in your eyes, I see everything and it’s soft, and good, and passion and selfless,” Nick moans to his lips, sloppily drinking the words from their surface now, licking into Rafa with an overwhelmed cry and they’re kissing with Rafa bucking into warm tightness, feeling that tongue loose and pliant around his. The sensations brim inside, burn, overflow but they are not over yet. Rafa slurs the confessions, peppering Nick’s chest with kisses shaping into Spanish words to dissolve into sweat there, soak beneath Nick’s skin, to stay there forever.

_Muy precioso, encanto, radiante, mi corazón._

Nick’s rolling them over, with a growl breaking into cry of emotion and hunger and Rafa lets him, seeking the sensation of being covered by this golden tapestry shinning with sweat like sky glimmers with stars. Nick settles on top of him, thighs balancing on Rafa’s hips. The angle deepens, making Rafa disappear more into Nick, making him ripple tight like bendable string Rafa could play on. With a prolonged moan around his name or a curse word or both, Nick supports himself with open palms against Rafa’s chest, grazing, scratching the skin there with nails. And he moves. He’s moving them back to infinity of fumbling ecstasy.

Rafa’s hands are everywhere, caressing Nick’s thighs, fondling his length, soaked wet by this point, drawing patterns on his taunt stomach and upwards his bowing chest. He shines like a star, glows brightly to the point of blinding. He’s so beautiful, from within, radiant with it, with rawness of his heart, face bare with emotion (pleasure, pain, desperation, greediness, ache, everything there). Rafa drinks it up, Rafa cherishes every second of it, to keep it inside the very core of his heart forever. To keep it like a memory of what ifs and dreams unfulfilled he keeps inside this room. Nick is going to be one of those. For the rest of his days now.

Rafa’s coming to the feeling of Nick clenching on him so much, trying to milk the very essence of him, like trying to steal a piece of his soul (he doesn’t have to, Rafa’s giving it willingly, Rafa thinks in these moments he would give him his entire life, but it’s worthless life, it’s wasted life, so there is no trade to be made here, to keep Nick forever). And his hand closes on Nick then, trembling but determined to have him follow, to have them dive over the edge together. Nick’s fingers close on Rafa’s when he does, still having something to give, his juices soaking their hands like a baptism ritual.

_Oh, let them be reborn in each other like that._

_Oh, let them have another chance together like that._

Nick’s coming down the high, with small whimpering noises, straight back to Rafa’s arms, falling on his chest, pliant and spent. Rafa meets him halfway, staying inside him for a moment longer, where it’s warm and familiar and perfect, holding this smooth, sweated skin, enveloping it with his own, for the safe keeping. The silence that follows (something sacred about it because fleeting, like that counting down clock echoes in the distance constantly, stealing their seconds away, there is no stopping for them, there is no escaping) is only filled with their breaths, in sync, together.

Rafa aches. Thinks about falling asleep like that. He thinks about them having a bath together before that. He thinks about Nick being in this place permanently, not a memory to cherish and long for, but a part of Rafa’s life, as he starts living it, as he should have a long time ago. His mouth leaves gentle, lazy pecks on top of Nick’s head (tracing the red streak lovingly, it’s cool to the touch now, like the star has fallen already). When he’s slipping out of Nick, it hurts, too. There’s emptiness inside him returning, waiting for something to happen, remembering the rest of his life that it did, right now and he had to let it go.

Because maybe in another place, in another time only then they could be.

He reaches for the tissues by the bed to clean them both. As he’s wiping Nick’s stomach, he mouths on his collarbone, then on the crook of his neck and then teases his lips. And they kiss. Soft brushes of a longing touch. Unable to stay away. Drinking from that source of life before setting out on a separation into a desert. Nuzzling Nick’s nose, leaving fleeting pecks on Nick’s lips Rafa has a cold, paralysing feeling. That these are the last kisses they exchange. The last chance to learn this taste, to remember the texture, to live off it for the rest of his days. Jesus. He feels like wailing.

The fluttering creature in Nick’s eyes is back, too. Ready to run. Back to pretences. Fake nonchalance. Mistrust and fear.

But not yet. They still have time. They still do.

They lie in bed, on their sides, facing each other. Rafa’s arm around Nick’s middle and Nick’s hand on Rafa’s chest, to read his heartbeat through the surface of his skin. The sound of water gently rocking against the boat and frogs croaking on the shore is soothing and familiar to Rafa. This is what he would listen to to forget about regrets here, to pretend he still can rebuild himself and his life anew. The aches returns. Because now, the symphony of sounds is joined by Nick’s breathing. By his side. Like he belongs here. Like he always did.

And Rafa will remember. And Rafa will expect it to be here after. But it won’t.

God. Even their love making felt like déjà vu. Slowly building up to abandon, push and pull, Rafa pining him down, then Nick overwhelming him.

That swish of a ball hitting the racket. Quick, heavy breaths as you try to chase every shot that connects you to him, that brings you closer and closer. That prolongs the game, because you never want it to stop with him. You want to chase him for as long as you can.

_God. Why is he thinking about tennis now?_

Rafa traces patterns on Nick’s forearm, noticing another tattoo. Feathers ripped away from the wing, scattering away in the wind. Rafa lifts his arm to watch it closer, turns it and twists it lightly, curiosity inside him growing.

“What?” Nick asks, amused. His voice hoarse, he’s been just crying out Rafa’s name. The traces of the want still stuck in his throat, sending heat down Rafa’s body. God.

“However you look at it, the feathers look like they’re going my way,” Rafa strokes the skin, like touching the pieces of Nick scattered, to put him together, to make him fly again.

“Hmm, and what do you think it means, Mister Plato?” Nick chuckles, he’s back to sending flares, even if his eyes tell a different story. Show the truth. The truth he shared with Rafa. The truth Rafa’s keeping forever.

“Maybe we will yet to see, Nick?’ Rafa sounds hopeful, smiling teasingly, but harboring genuine hope, when his mouth joins his hands to kiss the tattoo and bring himself closer to Nick, hand now on his hip, the other one touching his face lovingly.

“Maybe,” Nick sounds off-handed, even if his eyes gleam with skepticism melted.

“So, what are you doing on Mallorca?”

“Perfume commercial or some shit. It’s all blurred during summer season. It’s all been blurred for a while, I guess,” resignation and routine ring in his tone. “But there’s sun and the sea and some hot guys with boats, so I guess it wasn’t a complete waste of my time,” the smirk he’s wearing is not acted, is not on cue, because his eyes shine with warmth. And the words on the surface seem blasé and shallow but Rafa knows this will stay with Nick, everything they’ve written on their bodies and their souls, will stay with him for long while. For a long time. Forever?

“Which means I can see you on screen or a billboard.”

“If you’re lucky.”

But they both know it’s not the same. Nick out there is a creation for the masses. Nick out there is hiding, inside a cocoon of carefully woven walls. Nick’s in here is a butterfly, seeking the sun, fluttering to life in Rafa’s arms, with eyes amber warm and lips smiling openly.

“Any reshoots planned?” Rafa asks then, after a beat. He’s asking something else. He’s asking how long Nick is staying.

“Nah. Going home tomorrow,” said casually, with fearfulness in his eyes flashing briefly. And Rafa feels it inside like a dagger. The sound of the clock ticking away is deafening now.

“Where is home?” Rafa dares, as if it changes anything, as if it brings them any closer and separation becomes something abstract, something that doesn’t touch them.

“Australia,” and so there’s his answer. To hope, to familiarity, to inevitable. To future, to possibilities, to what ifs. They were born on separate corners of this planet. It spells with mockery. Rafa thinks he can hear the fate sniggering inside his head. Laughing at him for being naïve, for ever assuming.

“Hmm,” he musters himself to sound casual, purring to Nick’s forehead now, brought even closer, like the clock ticking already puts physical distance between them Rafa fights desperately with his entire body. There’s something bitter stuck in his throat, though. Something that tastes like mourning. “Sailing across the Pacific, from Mallorca to Australia? Sounds like an adventure for two.”

A pipe dream. Many from his list. Wishes and desires he buried beneath the cynicism of corporation routines. Rafa holds Nick closer now, kissing the top of his head, deceiving himself that this time it will be different. This time he will find enough hope and faith to follow the list and make things become reality.

“Sure it does, Rafa,” Nick mumbles to his chest. Mouth soft and wet against his skin. Kisses of grief. Kisses of acceptance. Because it will never happen and Nick knows this and Rafa does, too.

The silence wraps them up in this regretful serenity, as they live these stolen moments, learning the embrace of each other to recall it on a desert of separation, learning the sound of a heartbeat to remember it at night seeking peace, learning the feel of each other like this to never forget they had it, just for a while.

“I was going to be a tennis player, you know,” Nick breaks the stillness first, the words reach Rafa with delay, he was dozing off, he was giving in to this peace and belonging. The meaning of them shakes him up, strikes him deep, makes him gasp, covering the emotion with clearing his throat, hoping wildly skipping heartbeat won’t betray him just yet. “My mom and dad took me on the tennis court when I was like seven. I didn’t love it, at first. But there was something about the feel of the racket, the sound of the ball, the people you meet. I couldn’t stop coming back there, finding more and more reasons to have fun with the game, to play with shots, change them, make my own game, you know. The energy sometimes was incredible. Especially when I played with others. For others. I’ve won pretty big championship for the juniors and the feeling was incredible. You know, making my parents proud, my family proud, the whole country proud. But I think mostly myself. Like I worked hard and it paid off and I thought I matter, and I can inspire others, the kids to follow their dreams, anyone who thinks they can’t make it. Really special feeling, Raf,” Nick’s trailing his story on Rafa’s chest with his trembling fingers, like it costs him a lot, to be sharing this A fluttering creature offering his heart like that. Rafa bites on his lip, hides his mouth in Nick’s hair. Because the ache inside, he’s not entirely sure for what, that feeling of incredible loss opens up inside him so deep, and bleeds out with so much physical pain he’s choking on sobs, to not let them out. “And then, they wanted everything from me. So many expectations. Nothing would satisfy them. Nothing would make them stop waiting on me to be this or that. But then they were offended at something else I did or didn’t do. Offended at me being myself. They had this vision, of, I don’t know, national hero, or whatever the fuck their complexes were about, to make them feel better about themselves, I guess. Whatever I did or didn’t do was not the way they wanted. I started to hate it. Tennis felt like a judge of me. And the verdict was never positive. We don’t want you as you. We don’t love you as you. We don’t need you as you. So I said fuck you, too, I put on this mask for the posters and commercials and I’ve been giving people what they wanted ever since, not letting anyone say to me I’m not good enough as me ever again,” Nick’s nuzzling Rafa’s chest, like seeking shelter there, from exposing himself so much, from allowing Rafa into his heart so deep.

When was the last time he did. They hounded him behind this nonchalance, fear and mistrust. They drilled into his head that he must pretend, because his true, real self will never be enough.

Rafa’s kissing his hair, kissing his face, kissing his mouth, putting everything into these kisses, his whole heart now bleeding in loss for this boy’s dreams, for his what ifs, and for them, too. Two grieving souls that found each other too late to rebuild from pieces. Nick’s kissing back, seeking comfort on Rafa’s lips, finding reassurance on his tongue and it’s intimate and it’s healing and it’s a goodbye for them, too.

Rafa swallows the words he could say, as they continue to hold onto each other.

_I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss._

He chokes on them. Pushes them back to his heart.

_God. I was going to be a tennis player, too. What would it mean for us, if we stayed on that path? Would there be **us**? Would there be less grief? More freedom? Less pretences and more life together? More life. Just, life. Period. _

It’s in the past. It’s done and dusted. These paths not taken are now covered in weeds, cobwebs. These paths not taken are buried, along with dreams and what ifs of theirs.

The clock is ticking and they only have here and now. In this life, at least. For now, at least.

“You know, I’ve been told I make the most amazing breakfast,” Rafa says, it’s quiet, like a whisper, like he’s disturbing secrecy.

“You do?” Rafa can sense Nick’s smile on his skin. His face cuddled into his shoulder now. Mouth stretched into something playful and teasing. Familiarity of their life together like that. God.

“Mhmmmm,” Rafa hums, buying them some more time, pleading the clock to stop, for these few moments. “And you won’t know, if you don’t stay till morning,” he confesses, luring that fluttering creature in. Coaxing him to stay here, in safety, in trust, in freedom. Seen, accepted and adored, like he was denied to before.

“You know exactly how to push my buttons, Raf. Food will always do the trick,” Nick sounds like he’s drifting away. Lured in, coaxed. Rafa hopes, stroking his hair, his body telling him he can sleep here, he’s safe, he’s …. taken care of (not loved, not yet, he could be).

“Good to know,” Rafa says to himself, as light snores soon follow, puffs of warm breath tickling his skin.

A promise of a new opening. A promise of chasing the what ifs and catching them. Together. Smashing the clock into pieces. Making it. On time. Why not.

*

Nick’s not there in the morning. Of course, he isn’t. He took all traces of himself and gave in to fearful creature.

There’s smell of him left in the sheets. The image of golden skin against the whiteness engraved inside Rafa. More. His eyes shining with heart and vulnerability. The way Rafa’s name felt on his mouth.

It’s all there, inside this room, Rafa’s always treated as his sanctuary of hopes and anchors. The echo of Nick’s presence, his heart, will remain a part of it now.

Rafa thinks, they wouldn’t work in the end after all. Struggles of life, distance, differences, They would have fallen into a routine. Into clashes of expectations. That fleeting romanticism would be soaked in cynicism quickly, would crumble and became bitter reality. Rafa thinks, it’s good these were only moments given to them. Captured like on a photograph, glossed over, perfected, not touched by ordinary, boring and every day. A dream to pine after. A dream to bury as impossible.

And yet when he inhales the smell of fire, sand, caramel, staying in bed the entire morning, he aches. And he knows he won’t stop for a while. Maybe never.

After yet another unfulfilled what if.

PROLOGUE (time is relative)

The clock shifts, the clogs work relentlessly, the cycle continues unbroken, as the umpire leaves them by the net for a quick photo before a match. Rafa puts his arm around Nick methodically. A routine re-enacted to the tee. They both flash their fake smiles and Nick nods at him with a quick customary: _good match_ , mumbled on his way to his side of the court.

Rafa nods back, brushing his shoulder subconsciously in reassurance and it gives them both a pause. It’s a moment of recognition. An echo of something from before, from the future, or the past, from some moment in time. Rafa feels relief flooding him. Strange, intense surge of it almost knocking the breath off his lungs. Nick gasps, too. Like they’ve shared the experience just now.

A relief that he’s here, with him, now, with a racket in his hand, buzz of the stadium around them, the swish of balls, the clash of strings. Paralysing fear of emptiness of ever not having this. And safe inevitability, too. That wherever he goes, Nick follows. Nick’s there. A constant. Somehow. One way or another. He’s there.

The clock shifts, the clogs work relentlessly, the cycle continues unbroken, and so they move to their separate sides of the court now, filed with this foreign sensation.

There’s togetherness, but there’s separation about them. Always. Integral. Like it was meant to be. Almost.

Like two parallel lines, always close, never together.


End file.
